Rise of the Snakes
by DorkQueen
Summary: Three years after Day of Doom, Ian and Amy are called away from their respective new lives at MI6 and college, and thrust into a devious and intricate game of inter-Cahill family politics where power is the coveted prize and the only rule seems to be self-preservation. Multi-chap, Amy/Ian
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the 39 Clues series. All rights go to Scholastic Inc.

A few notes:

-Day of Doom spoilers! If you have not read up to Day of Doom and you do not want spoilers, I would suggest that you do not read this.

-The rating is T because there will be a few events relating to the use of alcohol *coughcoughthefirstchapter*. However, there will be no cursing (except for mild ones, such as "damn" and "hell"), and I think anyone who has read stuff like The Hunger Games and Harry Potter can certainly read this.

-This is my first original, multi-chapter adventure story! I have a vague outline in mind about the plot and characters (especially original characters), and I think the writing process will be an adventure, since there are a lot of things in the 39 Clues world that I get to explore. :) I'll try my best to have timely updates, but ah, I expect that there will be occasions where I abandon this story for a few weeks (or maybe even months).

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Chapter 1

_In which Ian has an unfriendly meeting with a childhood foe._

Like all pubs on a Friday night, Old Cat Head was crowded. Young men in their late teens flirted their way in through the giggling barmaid, young women wearing too much eyeliner eyed the room for potential hook-ups, and men in dirt-specked, dusty overalls doused their economic troubles with a single glass. Bars attracted the lonely and those in trouble with the promise of a night of another life. A night where one could forget and stop thinking, even if just for a moment.

In a darkened back corner, a young man sat hunched over a table. His long, slim fingers were curled around a cup, his index finger tapping against the glass. His face was cast half in shadow. His eyes, behind contacts, were fixed past the unruly crowds, focused on something in the distance—the pub door. Every few minutes it would open, more often letting in newcomers than letting out those wary of drunkenness.

The young man had sat there for nearly half an hour, unmoving, before he found something worth his notice. His eyes widened for a second and he muttered something under his breath before his lips tugged up in a small, humorless smile.

_If there is one fact certain about cove-ops,_ his first MI6 instructor Officer Wilkinson had once said_,_ _it is that, like life, they run in unpredictable courses._

A dark-haired man in a gray dinner jacket had made his way to the nearly empty table. His face was narrow and pale. His eyes were slant-eyed, showing his Asian descent. The newcomer slid into the seat opposite the young man already there without waiting for an invitation and waved to a nearby waitress to bring him a drink.

The eyes of the two men met. Old memories surfaced, old feelings returned, and challenges were thrown into the air. Yet, on the outside, both faces remained impassive.

It wasn't until the waitress came back and set down a glass of crimson liquid before the newcomer that the first man spoke. "Hello, Delun." His words were cool. "It is a surprise to see you here."

A condescending look had made its way across the newcomer's face as he eyed the cup lying in the other's hands. "I could say the same to you, Ian Kabra. I reckon your parents would be rather ashamed of you if they could see you now, mingling among drunks?"

"I doubt either of them would really care, seeing as my father is hiding in who-knows-where, and my mother is dead," Ian replied carelessly. "But you know that already, don't you?"

Delun simply smiled, revealing perfect white rows of pointed teeth. His dark amber eyes—a similarity he and Ian shared that people had often remarked upon when they were little—were glinting in the darkness. "We have not seen each other in a very long time, Cousin Ian. I had hoped to see you at the funeral held for the Cahills who died during Doomsday."

"I did not want to see the body of my sister," Ian said bluntly.

"My apologies and deepest sympathies," Delun said, lowering his head. "Natalie, wasn't it? I heard she grew up to be as beautiful and cunning as your late mother."

"She was," Ian acknowledged, feeling his chest tighten. Under the table, his right leg had started palpitating—a nervous habit. _Damn it. _He'd rather not Delun think that he was unnerved by the topic of his dead sister, as the other boy was attempting to do.

"I'll confess I was rather intimidated by her those times we met," Delun said. "Her and you both, at those gatherings your mother hosted. Do you remember those? My aunt always said Isabel hosted the best social events."

Images flickered in Ian's mind: the contrast of his mother's pale hand against his father's dark suit sleeve, the warmth in his mother's voice as she greeted the guests, the rays of light that illuminated smiles and bright colored dresses as sunlight was caught in the hanging chandelier. Ornate chairs, pint-sized drinks decorated with tiny umbrellas on top, laughter, saccharine perfume.

It wasn't until years later that he recognized forced chatter and laughter, subtle hints hidden under social niceties, the smile his mother wore only for strangers.

"You and your sister were always so detached," Delun said. "As the Kabras always are."

Ian did not reply, distracted by loud yells and catcalls from a different part in the bar. A group of people had gathered near the left center, where a fight seemed to have started. As common in bar fights, a few tables had been toppled over and there was the shattering of glass.

Ian watched with a disinterested expression. These were drunkards and poor folk, away from a Kabra's mind and concern.

"They say she died a heroic death," Delun said quietly. When Ian looked back at him, the boy was studying him closely. "Tried to fight the Vespers, didn't she? Shame such a talented girl's life had to be sacrificed." Delun raised his glass in the air. "To Natalie Kabra." He took a large swig.

Ian inclined his own glass, though he made no movement to drink from it. "If you've come all the way from China to give me your sympathies, a card would have cost much less time and effort and would have done just as nicely."

The older boy laughed softly. It was a dark and slightly gleeful sound, as if there was something Ian did not know and it amused Delun. "As sad and touching as your sister's death was, I'm afraid we have other matters to discuss. You see, this meeting between you and me has been arranged for a long time by no other than your father."

Ian was silent. Delun Hollingsworth's visit had been a surprise and yet his timing was impeccable—Delun would've known that Ian's defenses would be softer under the alcohol. He also knew Delun's background and the Hollingsworth family history well enough to be wary of truth imbedded with lies and secret motivations hidden under a pretense of oblivion. But there was no time to figure out Delun's intentions and Ian could not afford to be distracted. He glanced at his watch. _Sixty seconds now._

"Your father was quite impressed with your promotions up the British Intelligence Service. He said to offer you his congratulations for the success of the Green River Operation."

When Ian finally spoke, it was the abandoned and bewildered fourteen-year-old boy in him that asked, "You know where my father is?"

"Of course." Delun offered another mocking grin. "You don't?"

He didn't, and Delun clearly knew this. "The last time I heard, he was in South America."

Delun waved his hand dismissively. "Rumors."

The conviction in the way he spoke, as if he was now Vikram Kabra's closest confidante, invoked something nasty in Ian. "So you're part of his group now?" he said, leaning back. "One of his followers? Or, more accurately, one of his henchmen?"

Delun's jaw tightened and Ian felt a smidge of satisfaction. "I think I hear jealousy there, Kabra. You know, your father would take you back if you'd just kill Fiske Cahill."

The last sentence was slipped out so casually that the retort Ian was about to deliver disappeared into thin air.

"You heard correctly," Delun said, his mouth once again curving into a predator's grin. "It's killing off two birds with one stone for your father. He is willing to give you another chance and at the same time, he'll be getting rid of a little nuisance."

In his peripheral vision, Ian saw a group of high-school kids doing what looked to be a keg stand. "Ten! Nine! Eight!" they chanted, and he blocked the sound before the numbers ticked down any further. _You just have to kill one of the hostages, _he remembered his mother's saccharine voice coaxing him five years ago. Under the table, Ian's leg was shaking beyond his control.

"What, he has no one else to be his killing machine?" he said, the words coming out sharply.

"He has no one else close to the Cahill family," Delun replied. "He says that for some reason, the old Madrigal trusts you. So all you have to do is fly west to Cahill Mansion, come up with some crack story to soften the old man's heart, and then go for the kill."

"Even if I were to do it, it would be a crack job," Ian argued. It was always easier to focus on the technical details. "It would be impossible to go unsuspected and I would end up incriminating myself."

Even as he said it, he could see that that was what his father wanted. If he was to do this, none of the Cahills would ever trust him again and he would be forced to hide for the rest of his days, just like his father. He would eventually be forced to turn to his father for protection.

It was a masterplan, nothing short of Vikram Kabra's genius.

"Your father has safeguard measures set in place after the completion of the job," Delun said, confirming Ian's thoughts. "So you agree to take this proposition?"

Ian cast a final glance at the rest of the bar. He let the shouts, the clinking of glasses, the laughter, the curses overwhelm his mind. Through it all, he could hear the faint wail of a siren, gradually increasing in volume with every second.

"You're an MI6 agent, Kabra. You've killed other people before. I don't see what the problem is here. Your target is one measly, old man. If I were you, I wouldn't even have hesitated to say yes."

Ian looked back at Delun. "Well, there you have the difference between you and me. Tell my father I say for him to go to hell."

The siren was now screaming so loud that there was no doubt it was stopping right at the bar. Dozens of conversations were halted and even the bar fight temporarily stopped. The lack of noise in the bar was almost discomfiting as everyone waited.

The door burst open.

The barmaid screamed. The sound of glass shattering filled the room. Swear words that would have been unspeakable in the company of gentlemen, gentlewomen, and young children were screeched.

Dozens of men dressed in black swarmed into the bar. There was the sound of transmitters crackling. One tall woman, whom Ian recognized immediately as Officer Renkle by her unusually round face, barked at the people in the Old Cat Head, "No one move!"

Ian Kabra pushed himself of his seat, away from the glass that he never touched, and made his way past groups of wide-eyed, bewildered people. His eyes were on the two men who had moved before the order _not_ to move and had been the source of the ruckus. They had been caught before they reached the door. One of them carrying a large, rectangular suitcase, and Ian had only one guess what it was.

"You're under arrest," Ian said, as he approached, "for illegal purchase and possession of uranium. You have the right to be silent."

There were a couple of smiles from his fellow agents at the cheesy line, and a few slaps on the back for a job well done. As usual, he felt the pride and satisfaction following the closure of a successful operation the MI6 had planned for months.

Nevertheless, this was tainted by the feeling of dread of Delun's message and what was to come next.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_In which Amy Cahill makes her first appearance and a new character is introduced._

Amy focused on the seemingly never-ending train tracks running a few feet to the right of the car. The rusty red roof of the Attleboro train station had come into view not long after they saw the "Entering Attleboro 1694" sign. They now passed slightly run-down buildings in different shades of beige and a few cars scattered here and there. In the background, Amy spotted the spire of a church.

"Amy." Too late, she realized that her name was being called and turned toward the only other occupant of the backseat. "_Amy_."

"Sorry, what?" she said hastily. Reproachful hazel eyes continued to stare at her. "Stop looking at me like that!"

"Stop spacing out on me then! You've been looking out the window ever since we got into the car and barely said a word." Livia Tranc stuck out her bottom lip and gave Amy a forlorn look. "I've been sitting here for two hours, left to die of boredom."

She uttered the last few words with such despair that it brought a smile to Amy's face. It was one of the traits Amy loved about her friend: she could always make people feel better. "I've never heard of anyone who died from boredom," she said thoughtfully. "I've heard, though, that one of the side effects of dramatization is dramatically increased heart rate, which may lead to heart failure, so there may be potential death there."

Livia gave her friend a dirty look. "I'm glad the subject of my death is enticing enough to lure you out of Amy's world." The corners of her lips were turned up, though, as she nudged Amy with her shoulder. "So, what's wrong?"

"Hmm?"

The brunette gave a huff of exasperation. "Hello? Spacing out? Looking out the window? Giving one-word responses when I try to start a conversation? I might not have your brains, but I'm not daft. I know something's bothering you, Amy Cahill, and it's my right as your best friend to know what it is, so just spit it out."

Amy shifted uncomfortably. "It's nothing, really. I just got caught up in old memories."

"_Oh_," Livia said, sounding sympathetic. "I know what you mean. I feel like every year I grow older, I get more sentimental. I read a book a few weeks ago—"

"What book?" Amy asked hastily.

Livia rolled her eyes at her book-loving friend. "It was chick-lit; you wouldn't know it. Anyways, there was this bit of description about apple trees, and I totally bawled out my eyes over it because it reminded me of the time my parents took my brother and me to this apple orchard. Being city people, we were horrible apple pickers, of course; most of the ones we picked out had, like, brown splotches, and I remember this one that had a worm in it."

Amy was laughing. "Oh, my god, that's a horrible memory."

"Yeah, my mom threw most of them out later, but we had such a blast laughing over it." There was a soft smile on Livia's face. Her eyes flickered to the window behind Amy. "Hey, there aren't any more buildings or cars—not that there were that many before, but it's completely all grass and trees now. Did you not tell me something, Amy?" Amy felt her stomach clench over Livia's stern expression, but then her friend continued with a cheeky grin, "Do your family live in the wilderness, like that outside-y pro-nature family on _Survival Expedition_—or that family in the book series featuring that Laura girl with the pretzel braid—"

"Laura Ingalls Wilder from _Little House on the Prairie_?" Amy said automatically. Her stomach had unclenched. "Livia! What do you think?"

"I think I don't have the guts to kill a fish with my bare hands. Or eat raw meat. Or sleep in the grass, where there are boa constrictors lurking under—"

"I live in a house," Amy interrupted. "It's just a few miles away from the town and a little farther into the countryside."

"Wait." Livia's expression turned serious. "Do you have wi-fi?"

Amy rolled her eyes. "_Yes_."

"Okay. Good." Livia wiped imaginary beads of sweat from her forehead. "'Cuz, you know, I can't survive for a whole summer without internet, and that's a fact." Suddenly, Livia's eyes widened. "Whoa. Wait, is that your house?"

The car had stopped. Amy looked at the familiar two columns that made up the gate, with a small gold fountain built on each of the capitals. Looming behind the gate was a wide, white manor. It looked exactly like Grace's mansion, which she had spent so many summers at when she was younger, and yet it wasn't. Memories of Grace were built into this replica, and yet this home truly belonged to Amy, Dan, Uncle Fiske, and Nellie.

"That's not a house," Livia breathed. "That's a _mansion._"

"Does it live up to Livia Tranc's expectations?" Amy teased as the driver opened her door. She stepped out into the sunlight. It was a typical summer day, with a blue, cloudless sky and enough sunshine to promise sweltering heat if one stayed out too long.

As the two girls walked through the gate with the driver unloading their suitcases behind them, Livia linked their arms. It was a natural gesture, and yet as the brunette offered Amy an easy grin, Amy could not help but think about how much she had come to appreciate and rely on her friendship with Livia Tranc.

As they walked up the front porch, Amy hesitated for a second before ringing the doorbell.

"Wait, do you have a butler? And like servants?" Livia asked excitedly just as the door opened and a woman with a nosering appeared.

"Nellie!" Amy cried, throwing her arms around her favorite au pair.

Livia was studying Nellie's blond and pink streaks and nosering with fascination. "I'm guessing you're not the butler. Er, buttress? Butleress?"

Seeing the offended expression on Nellie's face, Amy laughed. "Livia, meet Nellie, my…um…well, Nellie used to be my au pair, but now she's, like—"

"Your adopted guardian," Nellie put in. "Who's a black belt in karate and tae kwon do, and isn't afraid to apply martial arts when she is called a buttress."

"Is she kidding?" Livia said in a stage-whisper to Amy, who was trying not to laugh. "She's kidding, right?"

"Nellie, meet Livia, my best friend," Amy said, still smiling. "And the single most melodramatic person I've ever met."

"Nice to meet you, kiddo," Nellie said. "Listen, I've got to speak with Amy alone for five minutes. Peter, who drove you here, will show you to a guest room and you take as long as you need to get settled."

There was a sinking feeling in Amy's stomach, but she forced a smile for Livia's sake. "I'll be up there in a few minutes."

After Livia and Peter had disappeared, her smile disappeared. "What's wrong? Is Dan okay? Where's Uncle Fiske?"

"Whoa, kiddo. When did you get so panicky?" Nellie said, giving Amy a playful nudge. "Both of them are totally fine. I just got a call from Dan, who just got on the plane for the flight back. He says he'll be here tomorrow morning and to save him some chocolate pancakes."

Amy rolled her eyes, her dread gone. "And Fiske?"

"Fiske is making phone calls for security arrangements at the JFK airport. Ian Kabra's flying over here from London," Nellie said. "You remember him, right?"

"Of course," Amy said, shocked. It had been years, though, since she had last seen her British cousin and that had been the terrible days following Doomsday. He had been understandably distraught over the deaths of his sister and mother, and had flown back to London the first chance he got. She had heard that he had applied into an MI6 program and had quickly become one of its best agents.

"Ian didn't say why he was coming in such a hurry—Fiske says it must be secret enough that he can't say it over the phone. He thinks it's probably related to the Old Cat Head operation."

"Old Cat Head operation?" Amy repeated uncomprehendingly.

Nellie looked at her sternly. "Amy Cahill, have you been following the news?"

"Not recently," Amy admitted, blushing.

"A lot of government agencies, including the MI6, track the buying of uranium, a substance used in the making of nuclear weapons. It turns out that over the past few months, the market for uranium has been extremely busy. MI6 didn't think it was a coincidence and tracked down two men who had been buying quite a bit of uranium in Old Cat Head, a pub in London. The operation was successful and arrests were made, and now there's been a whole lot of speculation about who the men worked for, how they got the uranium, and what they had planned to do with it."

"And you think Ian was involved in the operation," Amy said, her mind racing. "But why would he come here?"

Nellie shrugged. "To talk to Fiske? Despite the fact that he wears flowery pajamas and has a strange fondness for leg warmers, your uncle _is _the head of the Madrigals."

"But there's no reason for Ian to want to speak to Fiske." Amy's eyebrows stitched together until a realization came to her. "…unless the operation was somehow related to the Cahills."

Nellie snapped her fingers. "Bingo."

"When will Ian arrive?"

"This evening."

"But Livia—" Amy started.

"Won't have the slightest clue that anything strange is going on. You can tell her that Ian is, like, a British cousin who's visiting to learn more about American customs and culture. It's partially true."

"The British cousin part is true," Amy said, grinning. "And the visiting part. If Ian is anything like who he used to be, he doesn't care at all about American culture."

"After dinner, take Livia on a tour of the house, or a stroll outside, I don't know. Or spend hours on Facebook, like I know you guys usually do anyways. Ian, Fiske, and I are going to be in the study, where she doesn't have any reason to be."

Amy frowned. A familiar swirl of emotions was in her chest. "You'll tell me what he says?"

"Of course, kiddo." Nellie gave Amy's ear a playful tug. "Glad to have you back. Fiske and I have missed you, you know."

After giving Nellie one last hug, Amy went up the staircase to find Livia. She felt a mixture of emotions. Excitement, curiosity, and anticipation contrasted with fear, dread, and apprehension. Maybe it would turn out to be nothing—or maybe this summer would turn out to be a lot more hectic than she or Livia could ever have expected.


	3. Chapter 3

To everyone reading: Thank you! It means a lot to me that you're taking time out of your life to read a piece I've written. Thank you, to those of you who have reviewed, followed, and/or favorited. I always reply back to reviewers, but to those with guest accounts (Anika and a few anonymous guests): Thank you, thank you!

A note about reviews: I feel like some people are really reluctant to give criticism because they don't want to offend anyone, so I'll just put this out there: I am open to criticism, no matter how harsh. I'm not easily offended. Compliments make me feel nice and fuzzy inside, but I understand that criticism helps a writer become more aware of their own flaws, which opens the path for improvement.

I still consider myself a novice writer and I'm still struggling to find my style of writing. What do you think about the writing? Is it too dry and detached (like I suspect)? What do you think about the plot and the characters? Are some spots of the story confusing or cliché-ish? Please let me know!

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Chapter 3

_In which Ian goes through an interrogation and a plan is mentioned._

Twelve hours after the operation at Old Cat Head, Ian was called to the MI6 Headquarters in London. He was led past the lobby, took the elevator down to the lower floor, went through the left corridor, around the corner, and into a room that Ian knew well.

The lower two floors were filled with rooms of the same type. The walls were always stark and white, the floor paved with dark blue tiles. There were no pieces of furniture in the rooms. Each room was just 1152 cubic feet of open space, enough to hold all the secrets and tell-tales lured from those unfortunate to be guests. Of course, Ian knew as an MI6 agent that the structure of the rooms also gave the illusion that they were smaller than they actually were, therefore evoking a claustrophobic feeling from those in them.

Suffice to say, no one liked the interrogation rooms; not the interrogator, and certainly not the one being interrogated.

In this case, Ian was the latter.

The cold air pressed upon Ian's forearms and he immediately regretted wearing a short-sleeve shirt. Each touch brought him goosebumps and his palms began to sweat.

As if sensing his growing discomfort, another person hurried into the room. Ian recognized him immediately as Head Officer Travis, a slim, dark-skinned man in his forties—and Ian's supervisor. Two steps into the room, Travis stopped and muttered something before turning and walking out.

A few minutes later, he returned with two fold-up chairs and set them up in the middle of the room. "Sorry about the room, Kabra, but it's procedure, you know."

"I know, sir," Ian said, taking one of the seats as Travis took the other.

"And all of us know how much Chief cares about procedure," Travis muttered. Chief was the head of MI6, one up from Travis' position and two steps up from Ian's. "No matter how ridiculous or uncomfortable it is for the rest of us—" He cut himself off. "Anyways, I assume neither of us wants to be here longer than we have to, so let's cut to the chase. Evell tells me that on the night of the Old Cat Head operation, about ten minutes before our people were scheduled to arrive, he saw a man pass his position at the front of the bar and head straight for your table."

Ian silently cursed the sharp eyes of his partner Charles Evell. Evell's watchfulness had saved them a few times in the past, but this time, it would bring Ian nothing but complications. "That's true, sir."

"From the account he gave, the man sat down at your table and, to quote Evell, 'chatted up a storm.' After we came, Evell says there was a moment where he glanced back at the table you had sat in, but the man was already gone." Travis stared sternly at Ian. "Now, you already know what I'm going to ask, so start talking."

"The man Evell spotted was Delun Hollingsworth, sir," Ian started. "He was…someone I knew from my childhood. He told me that he was sent by my father."

"Vikram Kabra," Travis named.

Ian nodded. "He told me that my father had a proposition for me. If I killed this man who was causing trouble for him, he would welcome me back into his arms and would initiate me into his new group."

"His new group," Travis repeated. "Be more specific."

Ian shrugged. "Delun didn't mention much about it, sir. But from the way he mentioned it and considering my father's reputation, I doubt it's a hippie group, sir."

Travis snorted. "Don't take offense, Kabra, but your family is really a whack job. Murder, embezzling, government conspiracies…from the flood of reports, they seem to be behind it all."

Ian flinched, but didn't object. He still felt a little defensive of his family; after all, he had been told for the first fourteen years of his life that the Kabras were among the greatest, wealthiest, and most prestigious families in the world. It was the 39 Clues hunt that first gave him another perspective of his parents. Travis was the first person he had heard to speak of his family with disgust instead of admiration and envy.

"Did you respond to your father's proposition?"

"I told Delun to tell my father to go to hell," Ian said sharply.

Travis didn't react. "Alright. Tell me more about this Delun Hollingsworth character. How and when did you first meet him?"

"When I was six, I think," Ian answered, "I met him at a party my parents held. He's two years older than me, so he was eight when we first met. We're related on my mother's side of the family; he's the nephew of my mother's great-aunt."

"So you're cousins."

This was a bit of a jolt. For some reason, Ian had never thought of Delun as his cousin, but he supposed being part of the Cahill family had taken meaning out of the word 'cousin.' "That's right, sir."

"Do you think he was with the two men we arrested? That he was to pose as a distraction for you while they made their escape?"

"I considered that too, sir," Ian replied. "If he was, he failed. But I don't think Delun was affiliated with them at all. I think he had known about the operation and then had tried to take advantage of the situation. He knew I was pressed for time and my attention would be split, so it would be easier for him to rattle me."

"Your reasoning is logical," Travis commented approvingly. "So let's move on. You know for sure that Delun Hollingsworth is working for your father. Do you think he is close to your father?"

"Maybe. I don't know, sir."

"Does he know where Vikram Kabra is currently hiding?"

"Er." Ian looked curiously at his superior. "I asked him the same question and he answered in the affirmative."

Travis studied him closely. Ian forced himself to look directly back. The room was becoming colder, and he rubbed his forearms to try to make himself warmer.

Finally, the senior officer spoke. "I'll tell you what, Kabra. I understand that your relationship with your father is complicated, and I haven't pried more than regulations required."

"Thank you, sir," Ian murmured.

Travis held up a hand. "But the fact is that Vikram Kabra is a name on both the Most Wanted list of the MI5 and the MI6. He has committed crimes in not only Britain, but throughout several other countries in the world. There is a wide agreement that we need to find him, not only to charge him for what he has done but to prevent him from becoming a future threat."

He paused. "You remember, during your interview for MI6, when I asked you if you knew where your parents were or what their future plans were?"

"Yes, sir. I said I had no idea, as I had severed contact with them a few years before I applied here."

"Do you also remember when I asked you whether you would be capable of arresting your parents if it came to that?"

Ian's face was ashen, but resolute. "Yes, sir. I told you that I would."

"You see, I myself was skeptical of a young man born to two people whom had both committed atrocities in this country and in others. But you've proven yourself, over and over, and have risen up as one of MI6's most promising young agents."

"Thank you, sir."

Travis leaned back and started drumming his fingers in his lap. "So, tell me this, Kabra. What information are you withholding right now and why are you hiding it from me?"

Ian straightened. "I promise you I'm telling the truth, sir."

"Oh, I have no doubt what you've said is the truth," Travis said. "It's what you haven't said that concerns me."

When Ian said nothing, the other man leaned forward. "You've been extremely vague about the proposition your father offered you and not only that, but you're meaning to tell me that after all this time—three years, hasn't it been—your father decides to send one of his lads with information that might very well compromise his location and jeopardize his safety? You imply that he risks all this for you, and call me a pessimist, but I don't buy it. There have been men at less risk than Vikram Kabra who have sacrificed their sons without a moment's thought to ensure their own safety. From what you've told me, your father knows fully well the relationship between the two of you is severed and what he tells you will be brought back to MI6. So why would he dare risk a meeting and more than that, a proposition?"

The silence rang throughout the claustrophobic room.

"So this is the real reason why you've called me here," Ian said. Inside, he struggled to keep the anger—and _hurt that they had never trusted him, because he was Vikram Kabra's son_—at check.

"You can understand how the circumstances evoke suspicion."

Ian kept an even tone. "You think I'm still working with my father."

"It isn't important what _I_ think," Travis intercepted. "It's what was actually done."

"I assure you, I have had absolutely no contact with my father ever since he went into hiding."

"The unfortunate thing is that we have nothing but your word for it," Travis replied. "Now normally, as you recall, there would have to be a series of more severe interrogations and then a trial—"

"By all means, let's have it," Ian said confidently.

"—but in this case, I think there's a more suiting test of your loyalty to MI6," Travis finished. "You see, regardless of the intentions behind your actions, there has come an opportunity to find your father's whereabouts through your little friend's visit. Should you accept the terms of agreement, you shall take part in an operation designed to hunt down the elusive Vikram Kabra."

There was no need for Travis to say what would occur if Ian did not accept. "I accept."

"That was what I had hoped you'd answer," Travis said. "Now, listen closely. Your father's proposition shows two things. The first is that he is making a bold move, one that will pose to him benefits in either direction it is received. If you say no, which he expects, he will have gotten rid of your tracking attempts, which have drawn attention to his actual whereabouts.

"However, if you say yes—and this leads to my second point—if you say yes, he will have gotten solid proof of your loyalty to him through a murder, which is the strongest link I know of that can bind two people. The second thing your father's proposition shows is that your father finds you useful for a purpose or purposes, and perhaps may even need you.

Ian stared at Travis. "Surely, sir, you don't mean for me to kill?"

"Don't jump to conclusions, Kabra," Travis said dryly. "Contrary to what you may find in popular spy novels, the British Secret Intelligence does not execute missions with the purpose of murder—at least not of innocent people. This person your father has asked you to kill, he or she is an innocent?"

Ian hesitated. He didn't think any Cahills, especially not those who belonged to the Madrigal branch, could be labeled as innocent. "He hasn't broken any laws or committed any crimes to my knowledge."

"Good, let's proceed. I assume that this man has done something to provoke your father or is actively working against him?"

"I—I don't know, sir."

"You don't know?" It was one of the rare times when Travis was surprised. "Have you met this person before?"

"I haven't seen him for years," Ian admitted. "But I do know for a fact that he dislikes my father."

"So he would be willing to help us bring Vikram Kabra down?"

"I don't think he would be so willing as to sacrifice his life for my slaughtering," Ian said wryly. "Besides, I've already told my father no in the clearest possible terms, so I don't see how your plan can even get off the ground."

"You've already agreed to it," Travis reminded him. "And I told you not to jump to conclusions. Now listen closely to the rest of what I have to say, because we'll have a plan to not only prove your loyalty to us, but will also trap your old man in a corner—and you'll be the center star of it all. Talk about killing two birds with one stone, eh?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_In which Ian travels to America and arrives at Cahill Mansion._

Ian stood up as the name of his airplane was called, followed by a "Passengers should begin boarding the plane." He carried a single black suitcase, inside of which were all he would take with him to America.

Around him, people were hugging and exchanging farewells. He spotted a couple crying and quickly averted his gaze. The fact that he had no one to say goodbye to made him feel more than a little dejected and self-conscious. He had no friends or family who cared about his life at this point. The only people who did care were MI6, but only for vocational reasons.

He should've felt proud. He should've been excited that this would be his first solo mission. However, as he passed the boarding gate, his only thought was of how he was completely alone at this point.

He quickly found his seat. As he put his suitcase on the rack above, his eyes were drawn to the small window next to his seat and the gray sky outside. London was always wet, gloomy, and cold—and yet it was his home. It was the only place he had ever really known, and now he was leaving for who knew how long. A few months at the least, Travis had estimated, and a few years at the most.

Ian's spirits sank further. More people began to file into the airplane, but Ian paid them no attention. He simply stared outside the small, circular window and tried to comprehend that this would be his last look at it for a long time, among his other jumbled thoughts.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a reminder that seat belts should be fastened. Flight attendants, prepare for take-off, please. Cabin crew, please take your seats for take-off."

Ian settled into his seat for the first leg of a long flight.

* * *

The moment Ian stepped out of the cab, he sucked in a breath. _It looked exactly like how he remembered it. _A memory was floating to the top of his mind, not of when he flew to Attleboro to work at the Cahill Command Center, but when he, his parents, and Natalie stepped onto the grounds of Grace's mansion in Boston. He remembered, oh, how he remembered William McIntyre's gravelly voice reading aloud Grace's will, the gasps when the secret of the Cahills was revealed, the decisive tone his mother used when she said they would be taking the Clue, thank you very much.

Shaking off the sense of déjà-vu, Ian applied the techniques he had learned from the MI6 programs to calm his heartbeat and steady his mind. He needed to get a grip on himself. Yes, the two mansions were similar, but there were also clear differences when observed closely, such as how there were lions decorating the columns of this mansion and there had been eagles held down on the columns of Grace's mansion.

When he was sure he would be alright, he walked quickly down the main lawn and rang the doorbell.

Fiske Cahill himself greeted Ian at the door. "Ian, it's a pleasure to see you again. Welcome to Cahill mansion."

"Thank you, sir. It's a pleasure to see you too. I apologize for the inconvenience of the arrangements."

Fiske waved his hand around. "It's no problem, not at all. We're family, Ian, and I'm happy to do what I can for you."

"Thank you," Ian said awkwardly.

"I hope the flight was alright? There wasn't much turbulence?"

"No, the flight was fine."

To his relief, Fiske sensed his discomfort and waved the driver toward them. "Peter will show you to your room. You'll have a few minutes to get settled before dinner starts. Afterwards, we can talk privately in my study."

Ian nodded. Peter was waiting at the foot of the grand staircase with Ian's luggage. Ian walked toward him and followed him up the staircase.

The mansion wasn't as big as the Kabra mansion. But while the Kabra mansion radiated distant beauty and cold grandeur, the smaller space in this mansion resulted in a warmer, more homely atmosphere.

"The guest rooms are on the third floor," a clear, quiet voice diverted him from his observations. Ian was too surprised to respond immediately. He had never talked to a servant before. In Kabra mansion, this would not have been allowed because it would've implied that the servant thought of his employer as his equal.

But obviously, this was not Kabra mansion. It was time to grow out of another principle taught to him by his parents.

"How many floors are there in all?" Ian asked Peter. The last time Ian had been in the Cahill mansion, he hadn't exactly gotten a tour.

"Three," the small man replied. Ian guessed he was in his mid-thirties. "But that's not counting the attic and the basement."

They had arrived on the third floor. Ian followed Peter down a familiar red-carpeted hallway. His gaze was fixed on the first door on the right. He had stayed in that room once before. However, to his surprise, Peter passed by the door. As Ian got closer, he could hear muffled giggles and words from behind the wooden door.

"Is there another guest staying here?" Ian asked, stopping.

"Miss Amy and Miss Livia are in there, I believe. Miss Amy has invited her friend Miss Livia to stay here for the summer." Peter had stopped a few feet down, at a door on the left wall. "This is the room you'll be staying in, Mister Ian."

Ian cast a final glance at the first door before hurrying down. Peter had opened the door.

It was a regular-sized room, twice the size of his closet-sized room at MI6 headquarters (which he shared with another agent) but half the size of his bedroom in Kabra mansion. The walls were white and bare. There were a few pieces of furniture scattered here and there. Peter set down Ian's suitcase at the head of the bed. There was a nightstand to the left of the bed and a writing desk in the corner with a swivel chair behind it. There was a small bookcase and a door beside it—a closet, Ian assumed. White curtains fluttered in the face of a breeze, exposing a window behind it.

"There is a bathroom at the end of the hall," Peter said. He was still standing in the doorway and Ian knew that he expected to be dismissed. "Dinner starts at five, so you have about ten minutes to wash up."

"Er, thank you for carrying up my suitcase," Ian said, a bit hesitantly. Was he supposed to thank the servant?

Peter smiled. "You're welcome, Mister Ian. At any case, your suitcase was much easier to carry than Miss Livia's three trunks."

"I've learned to pack light." Ian did not smile back, for two reasons. One was that he had never heard a servant make fun of the people he was paid to serve. The second was that when he was younger and his parents had taken him and Natalie on vacations, he had always brought _at least _five suitcases. Natalie had always had more than ten, Ian thought affectionately.

The thought brought a pang in his heart because after five years, it still hurt to know that his little sister was gone. Even though she had been a brat sometimes—well, they both had been rich, spoiled brats. But while he had had the chance to grow up and see the world through new eyes, Natalie did not.

Peter had disappeared. Ian wondered, not for the first time, if he had been foolish to come. He did not know whether Fiske would help him or even believe him—and there was a chance that Ian might unconsciously offend him in some way and be thrown out of the house. The Cahill household was new territory and the American customs foreign. He had yet to grow used to his surroundings.

Fiske's words suddenly floated into Ian's mind. _We're family._ The words had unnerved Ian in a way he couldn't describe.

There was a beep. Reaching into his pocket, Ian drew out his phone. There was a new text, from a blocked number.

_I'm glad to see you've changed your mind, Ian. _

The text self-deleted, and now there was another beep.

Ian opened the new text message.

_You have been allotted 7 days for the termination of Fiske Cahill._

The text self-deleted a few seconds after the words had been branded into Ian's mind. _Some family_, he scoffed. And with that thought, he headed to the bathroom to wash up for his first dinner at the Cahill Mansion.


	5. Chapter 5

Chap 5

_A dinner, in which an awkward conversation transpires._

"You didn't tell me there would be a hot British guy staying here!" As usual, Livia's whisper was louder than a typical whisper. Amy looked for the infamous Kabra smirk to be aimed in Livia's direction, but Ian seemed oblivious as he continued spooning gravy onto his mashed potatoes.

"I did tell you, remember?" Amy hissed back. "When we were upstairs, I told you that my cousin was visiting."

"Ah, you did," Livia said, wagging a finger. Amy was reminded so much of Fiske that she had to bite back a smile. "But you didn't tell me he was _hot_. You see, there's a difference between a visiting cousin and a _hot_ visiting cousin."

Amy followed Livia's eyes to the subject of their conversation. Ian Kabra seemed very different from how she remembered him. Yes, the startling jet-black hair was still there and so were the amber eyes, but Ian's physique was remarkably changed. There was no more baby fat on his face; it was all straight, sharp lines. It gave him a hard, cold look that contrasted with the uncertainty of the boy Amy had encountered during the Clue Hunt. Five years ago, his body had been on the line between what was considered skinny and what was considered lean. Now, there was no doubt that it was the latter; his chest muscles were visible through his button-down shirt and his shoulders were broader.

"But I suppose it would be weird for you to call your own cousin hot," Livia went on, oblivious to Amy's thoughts.

"We're distant cousins," Amy said, breaking eye contact with Ian. "Technically, Ian and I are about as related as you and I are."

"Why is he here again?"

"He's studying American culture," Amy lied.

Livia's eyes sparkled. Amy mentally prepared herself. "We should offer to show him around Massachusetts."

Amy nearly spit out a mouthful of chicken. "Uh, _no_. First, I don't think Ian has so much time that we can show him the entire freaking state of _Massachusetts_—"

"Massachusetts is tiny," Livia dismissed with a wave. "But, fine, we'll show him around Attleboro and Boston. Your hometown and mine."

"There's nothing to see in Attleboro. You saw the place when we drove here. Downtown is literally made up of a few run-down stores that nobody goes to and a railroad station. And the rest of Attleboro is grass."

"Boston, then," Livia persisted. "It's only a half-hour drive away from Attleboro. I've lived there my whole life and you said you've been there a bunch of times too. C'mon, we'll be amazing tour guides. You can explain, like, all the historical tourist-y attraction stuff and I'll educate him on pop music and fast food and other American stuff. It'll be fun."

"I don't think anyone can call a day with you nattering in their ear 'fun.'"

"Oh, shut up. The poor guy is traveling by himself. I don't think he'd mind the company of the beautiful, smart, and witty Livia Tranc and the beautiful, smart, slightly-less-witty Amy Cahill."

Amy rolled her eyes and grappled for something that would make Livia discard this stupid idea. "There's a reason why Ian Kabra travels alone." Here she lowered her voice, as if spreading gossip, and tried to ignore the fact that she was badmouthing Ian behind his back. "He's not a very friendly person. In fact, he's a snob."

Livia looked interested and more than a little curious. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

"His family is, like, rich. He grew up really spoiled and thinks he's above us 'peasants.'"

Livia snorted. "For real? He used that word?"

"Yup." The guilt increased. If Amy was honest, it wasn't Ian who had said those degrading things about her and Dan. Compared to his sister and the rest of his family, Ian had actually been fairly civil in the times they met.

"Arrogance just adds to his hotness," Livia was saying. Amy suppressed a groan. Once Livia had an idea, it was practically impossible to dissuade her from it.

"Either way, I don't think he really wants to see Massachusetts," she said, trying one last time.

"Uh, then why is he here? I thought you said he was learning about American culture?"

"Yeah, but the only reason why he's stopping in Attleboro is to—to catch up with the family. Fiske insisted that he stop by," Amy persisted. "The last time we saw him was, like, five years ago at…a family reunion."

Livia cast a purposeful glance at the others and raised an eyebrow. After brief introductions, the main conversation at the table had quickly died out and now everyone seemed to be wrapped up in their own thoughts. Nellie actually had earbuds on. "Great reunion. I can hear the riveting, animated conversation."

"My family isn't really the loud type," Amy admitted.

But Livia had given up any pretense of a whisper. "For god's sake, it's like we're at a funeral."

Fiske, who had been staring at a spot on the table for the past five minutes, dropped his fork in surprise at the sound of her voice. Livia found herself the recipient of many stares and raised eyebrows.

"Uh, just sayin'."

A startled laugh came from Amy. She met the eyes of Ian, who was looking mystified as if he had heard something familiar but couldn't quite place it. "Jonah," she mouthed to him with a smile. She saw the realization come on his face—Jonah Wizard had said nearly the exact same thing once, "Just sayin'" being the name of one of his songs—and the tug of his lips upward at the memory of their ridiculous cousin.

For a moment, the awkwardness subsided. The mention of Jonah had somehow connected them, just like the way they had been connected by the 39 Clues hunt and the fight against the Vespers.

"You're right, Livia," Fiske was saying. "I apologize. It's my job as host to keep up a conversation, and I have not been doing a very good job." He paused, struggling to find a topic they could all talk about. Amy knew that it wasn't easy. When other Cahills visited, Fiske usually talked about official Madrigal and Cahill business. But with a non-Cahill present at the table, Fiske was at a loss at how the conversation should proceed.

"So, Ian," Livia piped up, her inquisitive eyes resting on a certain British boy. "Amy told me you're here to study American culture."

If Ian was startled or appalled by the cover story Amy and Nellie had provided for him, he didn't show it. "Yes, I am. I was passing by Attleboro and Fiske was kind enough to let me stay for a few days before I continue with my travels."

"For more than just a few days, I hope," Fiske said. Livia elbowed Amy.

"I'm afraid that's not very likely," Ian said. "I'm already behind schedule in my travels."

Amy gave Livia an _I-told-you-so _look.

"But it's been a while since we've last seen each other." Fiske's eyes flickered to his niece. "Maybe you and Amy should catch up."

"There's not really anything to talk about," Amy protested, embarrassed. She snuck a peek at Ian, who was looking her way, and quickly turned her gaze back to her plate. "Nothing big or important has happened."

Nellie snorted. "Um, actually, I know something big and important that's happened in the past year." Amy gave her a questioning glance. "It starts with a C." At Amy's blank look, she gave a huff of exasperation. "College?"

"Oh, yeah. College is pretty great," Amy said, feeling a smile grow on her face. College had been like a separate reality away from the hectic life of a Cahill and the crazy Vespers. She could deal with term papers and exams, hyper-active dormmates, and cute guys.

"No kidding," Livia said sarcastically, and Amy felt her smile grow further. Even now she missed her messy dorm room, which she shared with the disorganized Livia, and the soft green grass of the turd field at Brown where she had spent many spring days sprawled upon while studying and reading.

"Livia and I go to Brown," Amy told Ian. "We both major in history."

"Quite an important and valuable subject," Fiske remarked, his eyes twinkling. "May I ask what made you choose it?"

Livia was the one who answered. "Personally, I love that all the stories are true, that every day we find another piece of the past and another ancient mystery is solved. And it's kind of an adventure to decipher all the ancient writings and relics. Amy and I debate a lot over interpretations."

The two girls shared a grin, both thinking about how quickly a light comment regarding the Vedic had quickly escalated into a heated argument just yesterday.

"We both want to be archaeologists too," Amy added. _Just like my parents_. She dared to look up at Fiske, who gazed back at her with visible sadness in his eyes.

"It's the perfect choice since we both love traveling," Livia said. "Amy's so lucky she's been to so many countries. I've barely been to two."

"Amy has travelled quite a bit for a young person," Fiske agreed. "We Cahills have always had a fondness for travelling and opening the eyes of the young to the world while they're still growing."

A snort came from Ian. When Amy turned to look at him, his face was impassive. "That's an understatement."

"So you're a frequent traveler too?" Livia said.

"I'd been to all of the countries in Europe by the time I was ten."

"Oh. Wow." Livia's eyes were wide. "I've always wanted to travel around the world. I haven't even been to Europe yet."

"Maybe we can plan a trip next summer," Amy said, her eyes sparkling.

"Oh, that'd be so fun! We'll have to visit Paris, of course—"

"The Eiffel Tower is overrated," Nellie interjected, pulling her earbuds out of her ears at the mention of her favorite city. "The Parisian cafes, on the other hand, don't get the recognition they deserve. The croissants, man, the croissants really get to me."

"And Venice sounds so lovely, as does London—"

"You won't like London," Ian said, his voice flat.

"Aren't you from there?" Livia asked.

Ian shrugged. "I didn't say _I _don't like it there. It's much colder there, though, and we don't take to foreigners that well. I've heard my fair share of Americans complain about the 'snotty Brits' and it's rather annoying. Trust me, you wouldn't like London."

There was an awkward pause.

"I want to see Asia too," Livia said, tactfully changing the subject. "I've never been farther east than, like, Massachusetts. I want to go to China, of course, and see the Great Wall…and I've heard Korea is so pretty—"

"It is," Amy, Nellie, Fiske said together. At the same time, Ian said, "It's alright."

There was a silence. "Oh, you've all been there?" Livia said, jealousy tingeing her voice. "_Lucky_."

Amy glanced at Ian. Korea had been one of the nicer places they'd visited during the 39 Clues hunt with its high mountain ranges, rolling hills, and luscious green fields. Amy had always felt most at peace in the countryside, directly interacting with Mother Nature, but she supposed a city-dweller like Ian wouldn't have been as impressed.

Nellie then excused herself to bring out the desserts and Fiske quickly stood up to help her. As they disappeared into the kitchen, Livia whispered into Amy's ear, "Are Nellie and Fiske married?"

Amy choked on her spinach. Livia whacked her several times on the back while Ian stared. "No! Gosh, Livia, no! They're, like, forty years apart."

"I just thought it was weird that they were your guardians together," Livia said. "Fiske is your uncle right? And Nellie was, what, some former baby-sitter?"

"Au pair," Amy corrected automatically. She racked her brains for an explanation that didn't involve a long, winded account of family history and couldn't find one. "It's complicated."

"Hmm." Livia sounded distracted. Amy's momentary relief at Livia's surprisingly docile response to her excuse faded when she realized that Livia was narrowing her eyes at Ian. The feeling of awkwardness had descended upon the three adolescents when the adults had left. Amy felt the same way she did whenever Livia decided a boy was cute and dragged Amy with her to approach him.

Only this time, it was worse because that boy was Ian Kabra.

"So, Ian, how has your stay in America been?" Livia started.

Ian continued cutting a sausage into pieces. "Well enough, thank you."

"What do you think about the culture?"

"It's alright," Ian said, raising a piece of sausage to his mouth.

"How long have you been in the U.S.?"

"A few months."

Ian's curt responses didn't faze Livia in the least. In fact, they seemed to make her bolder. "How long will you be staying in Massachusetts?"

Ian calmly chewed and swallowed before replying, "Like I said before, probably a few days, but it depends."

Livia jumped on his answer like a dog finding a scent. "On what?"

"Er," Ian said. His eyes flickered up from his plate and immediately found himself trapped under Livia's curious gaze. Quickly, he looked away—and this time, his eyes met with Amy's.

From the eye contact, Amy could read the panic that was masked on Ian's face. Unfortunately, as she herself didn't know exactly what Ian was seeking for from his stay in Cahill Mansion, she was unable to help him.

"You know, if you're in no particular hurry," Livia began.

"But I am," Ian insisted.

Livia challenged this answer with a raise of her eyebrows. "Oh, yeah? For what?"

"There are still many states that Ian hasn't travelled to yet," Amy said, cringing immediately after at the lameness of the excuse.

"And there's still plenty of time, hmm?" Livia retorted. "How much longer are you staying in the U.S., Ian?"

Ian shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, I'll probably be leaving soon."

Livia was momentarily surprised by this. "And heading back to England?"

"Most likely."

"But that's just in the near future, right?" Livia persisted. "If you just spare a day or so, Amy and I were just talking about how we'd love to give you a tour of Boston."

Before Amy could strangle her so-called friend, Nellie and Fiske came back in, with Fiske carrying a large pan under mittens.

"Clafouti for dessert," Nellie announced. "Prepare to be impressed. The recipe is a Limousin family secret that's been passed from generation to generation for a hundred years. I managed to get it from an old woman on a trip to Limoges—for a specific price, of course."

"It smells delicious," Ian said, who was thankful and more than a little relieved that the previous conversation was over. Nellie and Amy gaped at him.

"Wow, is that a genuine compliment, Kabra? No snark or fake niceties involved?" Nellie said.

Ian flushed, an adorable red shade coloring his cheeks.

Fiske was slightly more composed. "I told you you've really outdone yourself this time, my dear," he said to Nellie.

"You cooked it yourself?" Livia asked, surprised.

"I have a variety of talents," Nellie replied, setting the pan on the table.

Amy snorted. "Those so-called talents include temporarily deafening potential attackers just by singing."

Nellie gave her a threatening look. "Careful, or there'll be no second slice for you."

Amy was quiet after that.

Ten minutes afterwards, the pan was completely empty except for a few crumbs sticking onto the pan covering. Amy's stomach was filled with the warm, satisfied feeling of fullness. The company parted soon afterwards, with Amy leading Livia outside for a tour of the gardens while Fiske, Nellie, and Ian went discreetly upstairs.


	6. Chapter 6

To address a concern brought up by a reviewer about timely updates: Honestly, I don't think my updates have been slow…have they? I've got a whole load of stuff to do for school (cough finals cough) and in the recent few weeks, I've had a bunch of events aligned on Saturdays so that I haven't had that much time to write.

Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much that you're asking for updates, and I'm sorry for any delay! Here's a new chapter, if that's any consolation. :P

* * *

Chapter 5

_In which Ian has two meetings, the second of which is completely unexpected._

"It is a pity that what brings you back is not family or pleasure, but business," Fiske sighed.

The older man sat behind a large, wooden desk as he regarded the younger thoughtfully. Ian shifted uncomfortably. It was only the two of them in the office, as Nellie had separated from them after coming up the stairs. Fiske had informed Ian, with not a small amount of pride in his voice, that Nellie was quite busy nowadays with her Ambassador to France position.

To amuse himself, Ian had tried to picture the Cahill kids' au pair, together with her nose ring, pink hair, and concert shirts, in a U.N. conference room.

"But nevertheless, it's a pleasure to see you, Ian. It's been a long time," Fiske noted. "I haven't seen you at any of the various branch meetings we've held over the past few years."

"I haven't been active as a Lucian agent for a while," Ian said warily. "There have been…other matters that have required my total dedication."

"The British Secret Intelligence," Fiske acknowledged. "It's not uncommon for young Lucians such as yourself to dedicate themselves to a government agency for the majority of their youth and then re-involve themselves in their Cahill branch later on."

Ian remembered. His parents had been part of MI6 during their youth, when the Lucians had controlled every government and government agency in the world. Over the past few decades, however, the Lucians, along with the rest of the Cahill family, had lost much of their power and influence. The proof was the rise of non-Cahills in political organizations, such as Ian's superior Travis.

"I've come on the behalf of MI6 actually," Ian said, "on a matter of great importance to both the Cahill family and MI6. I assume you've heard about the Old Cat Head mission?" At Fiske's nod, Ian continued, "Well, what the press didn't report is that during the operation, there was a slight…disturbance. It didn't undermine the success of the mission, but was rather unexpected and drew the interest of MI6. You see, one of my father's lackeys was told to set up a meeting with me and convey a proposition that my father was offering."

Fiske's eyes were now more intently focused on Ian. "And the proposition was?"

"He told me he would 'take me back'—that's verbatim—if I killed you."

The older man didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he looked thoughtful. "What role does your MI6 play in this?"

Ian explained how Evell had caught sight of Ian's encounter and how he had been forced to inform MI6 of the chance meeting. "I didn't give any names," Ian assured him. "I didn't violate the Cahill Secrecy Act."

Fiske simply nodded and gestured for Ian to continue. The boy explained how MI6 had viewed the whole affair and their plan to turn it into their advantage.

"In short, they want me to regain my father's trust and then act as a double-agent for them," Ian concluded. "And that begins with your fake-death."

He prepared himself for Fiske's objections. "Alright, let's go back to the beginning," the older man said. "This lackey of your father's…do you know anything about him?"

"His name is Delun Hollingsworth," Ian said. "I know him from past family reunions that my mother held. Delun is a cousin on my mother's side."

"Are you certain he's working for your father?"

The question surprised Ian, who thought the answer was quite obvious.

"I mean, did he say outright that he was?" Fiske said.

"Yes, and he said he knew my father's exact whereabouts."

"You're sure?" Fiske pressed.

Ian wondered why he was focusing on this one, seemingly minute detail. But he knew first-hand that small details were often the most important—and the most overlooked. "My mother was always strangely fond of him, so it would make sense that she would recruit him. So yes, I suppose he's a Vesper now, working for my father."

Fiske was staring at him. "You sound very sure."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You sound very certain that your father is a Vesper."

"Well, I assumed that was what Delun was referring to when he said my father had a new group," Ian said. "Obviously, I couldn't tell that to MI6, but I never doubted he meant anything but the Vespers. My mother was one, after all, and probably introduced him to a few Vespers. You know Lucians like to form new connections and expand their associates list—it makes it easier to know who to support on the playing field. For power, that is."

He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Power had always been his parents' first priority, even above their children.

As if reading Ian's thoughts, Fiske said, "Well, the fact that your father made an attempt to reconcile with you ought to mean something. Vikram Kabra is a complicated man, but I believe he sincerely cares about his children."

The contrast between Fiske's deduction and Travis' conviction that Vikram was using Ian was blatant. Deep down, Ian desperately wanted to believe Fiske, but his wary mind told him not to be naïve.

"Back to the plan," he said. "So are you willing to go along with it?"

Fiske folded his hands on top of the mahogany desk. "I have a few reservations."

"I received a message from my father this morning, who thinks I'm on board with our deal. Once you fake your death, I can locate my father and infiltrate the Vespers. It'll be a win-win," Ian persuaded. "The Cahills can defeat the Vespers, and MI6 will be able to prosecute my father."

"Yes," Fiske said after a moment of consideration. "It will greatly turn the tide in the recent war between the Cahills and the Vespers. The latter have increased their attacks on the Cahill family since the battle under the Rocky Mountains three years ago. I fear the vendetta they've harbored toward us all these hundreds of years has increased into something deadlier."

"Exactly," Ian said, his voice ringing through the room. "This may be your opportunity to extinguish them once and for all."

He saw Fiske open his mouth and then close it. "Is it the Madrigal branch that is making you hesitate?" Ian asked. "If so, there is no need to worry. An assistant or someone can surely temporarily step in for you, right? All operations will resume and you will still be able to work from behind-the-scenes."

"No, I'm not worried about that," Fiske answered slowly.

"Then you'll see that everything has been meticulously planned out by MI6," Ian declared.

"What I'm worried about is you," Fiske said.

Ian was surprised into momentary silence. "I beg your pardon?"

"You've been put in a situation where you've had to choose between MI6 and your father," Fiske said. Ian hated the sympathy in his voice. "They've made your enemy your father. Your family, your blood. I can't imagine how that must feel."

"I'm fine," Ian said stiffly.

"You're brave," Fiske corrected. "You put on a front, but…" He shook his head. "I want you to know that if you ever need to talk, I'll always be here."

"I'm fine," Ian repeated.

"Alright, then," Fiske said, though he didn't sound convinced. He leaned back in his chair. "We'll still have to discuss the nitpicky details, but if you're sure you want to go through with the plan, you have my support."

"Great." Ian held out his hand and Fiske shook it. The younger one was eager to get out of the office, but the older stopped him at the door.

"So Amy—you remember my niece, of course?"

Ian assured him that he did. Amy Cahill and her brother had always been a vibrant part of his recollections of the 39 Clues hunt.

"She brought a friend over for this summer," Fiske said. "Miss Livia Tranc. I believe you met her at dinner?" Ian replied in the affirmative. "I apologize for not giving you notice sooner. It was a rather spontaneous decision that my niece made. It's rather unfortunate, but we'll have to keep Cahill matters hushed."

"I understand," Ian assured him.

"You'll be staying at least a week?" Fiske asked.

"At most," Ian corrected. Grimly, he told Fiske about the text message he had received.

"Your father is awfully eager to dispose of me," Fiske said, his tone the most serious it had been since the entire meeting. "Alright, I won't keep you here any longer. Good night, Ian."

After the boy left, Fiske sat for a long time contemplating. The poor Kabra boy had no idea what he was getting himself into. He was a pawn, taking his first step forward into a long and complicated game of chess.

Finally, Fiske stood up. He moved toward a small cabinet and opened the second drawer. His hand darted inside and came out with a plain black DeOssie phone in its grasp.

The phone was only able to call one person. As Fiske hit the dial button, he fervently hoped that person would pick up. It would save him a lot of complications, after all.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings.

Fiske sighed and hung up.

He now reached across the left-hand corner of his desk for his iPhone. Unlocking it, he opened TravelUs and scrolled down for tomorrow's flights. With only a moment of hesitation, he chose one that would leave at 8 am tomorrow for New York, where he would make a few transfers.

In the old days, no one used cell phones to reach each other. They physically found each other and talked face-to-face.

It was time for Fiske to go back to the old ways.

* * *

Ian took slow steps up the stairs. His mind was playing back the conversation between him and Fiske.

There was one question that Fiske hadn't addressed, that Ian hadn't dared to ask. What had Fiske done to incur the wrath of Ian's father? Ian hadn't asked firstly because it wasn't any of his business and he'd long learned to keep his nose out of such things, and secondly because despite Fiske's claims of family trumping all, he wasn't sure Fiske would've answered honestly.

A single light lit the dim third floor hallway. Ian padded down the velvet carpet, tired from jet lag and the whirl of recent events.

_At least you're making progress_, he told himself. Fiske had agreed to fake his death, which was the first step to fulfilling the mission.

It was just a mission. Ian had been on dozens of them. So why did this one fill Ian with so much dread?

_Stop_, he told himself. He had been taught over and over by MI6 instructors that getting personal feelings involved in a mission was a terrible idea that could have fatal consequences.

_Just a mission, _he repeated to himself silently. _Just a mission._

He was still repeating these words as he pushed open the door to his bedroom. He was about to turn on the light, when a voice from behind stopped him.

"I-Ian."

Without turning around, Ian recognized the stutter. "Amy."

The girl appeared at Ian's side. Her bright eyes appeared luminous in the darkness and looked directly at Ian. Despite her stutter earlier when she had said his name, there was a familiar set to her mouth that Ian recognized as determination.

"Listen, we have to talk."


End file.
